


Growing Pains

by ViolentVioletEye



Series: Schlatt is Tubbo's Father [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Horns, Other, Pain, Toby Smith | Tubbo Angst, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:35:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentVioletEye/pseuds/ViolentVioletEye
Summary: Tubbo's head hurts.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Alexis | Quackity & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Series: Schlatt is Tubbo's Father [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980382
Comments: 125
Kudos: 1358





	1. Day One Through Three

**Author's Note:**

> TW for mentions of blood, but its very brief and not descriptive. Tubbo doesn't have a good time in this bit. Whoops.

Tubbo's head hurt.

It had been hurting since the election, and that had been a week ago. Pouring over paperwork and playing errand boy didn't help, either. His headache would almost fade away and just be a consistent throb he could almost ignore, and then it would come back full force and make his sight spin. He would cry, but crying made it worse. He had already cried so much because of the election. He had run out of tears so quickly and he didn't have much else to give.

He felt like a zombie, always moving on auto pilot. Once it was confirmed that Tommy and Wilbur were out of the walls, those had been torn down. By Fundy. Tubbo couldn't get the image out of his head, of Fundy tearing down the walls they had all built together, walls Fundy's own father had made to protect them. Schlatt had laughed through it all. Of course he had. Tubbo's past week had been filled with paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork. When he wasn't doing paperwork, he was running messages all around the White House, from the janitor to the President himself.

He hated running errands for Schlatt. He hated going into his office. He hated being under that dark gaze, it felt like every move he made he was analyzing. He had nothing to hide. He almost wished he did, just to spite the man. But he hadn't left these walls once, not even to take a stroll. It was almost like Schlatt was making sure of that. The only time Tubbo wasn't working for him when, late at night, he would drag himself out to the bench.

His and Tommy's bench. There he would sit, and he would wait. He would wait for Tommy, something until sunrise. He would pay for it when he'd crash at his desk, but he didn't care. He was determined to wait. Schlatt had taken so much. But he wouldn't take this. Tubbo could hold on to at least this.

His head hurt. It really hurt. He had gone to the doctor but they couldn't find anything wrong. They had given him medication but it didn't even touch it. He was close to guzzling the whole bottle just to try and find release from the increasing pressure in his head. The only time he ever got any semblance of a release was when he yanked on his own hair so hard he would pull out strands from his stinging scalp. He had to stop doing that when Quackity walked in on him in the breakroom. He had been able to dodge any questions by ducking out of there, but he had seen the confused and concerned look on the Vice President's face. Not that it mattered. It wasn't doing much for him anymore by then.

Fuck. It really hurt. He couldn't breathe. He was hunched over, sitting on the bench. It was cold but it only seemed to make his head hurt even more. Everything seemed to make it worse. He tucked his head in between his knees and tried to take deep, steady breaths as he yanked at his hair, just trying to find relief. He couldn't feel the earth under his feet, or the bench he sat on; the cliff before him meant almost nothing. If it weren't for the railing, he would have toppled down it by now.

He was crying again. He laid on his side on the freezing cold bench, quivering from all of the agony pounding against his skull. It seemed to hit its peak and he made a barely lucid decision that if it got any wore, he'd jump the fucking fence and let this just end. Maybe if he went into the respawn process for a few hours, he would finally be rid of this terrible migraine.

He didn't hear the footsteps walking up to him. He barely felt the hands that touched his, carefully prying his cramping fingers from the strands of his hair. He made a noise that sounded more animal than human, before a gentle hand brushed through his hair.

"Tubbo?" A voice whispered and he made that noise again, louder and longer. He would have been crosseyed if his eyes were open. "It's alright," the same voice whispered. Arms pushed underneath him, carefully lifting him up from the bench. He was cradled with the utmost care, as if he was just a helpless infant who couldn't even hold up their head. It was fitting, since he couldn't hold up his own either. It felt heavy. It felt like his skull was expanding. His head rolled back against the shoulder of the person carrying him.

"Hang on, Tubbo. It'll be okay."

Modern medicine had no way of completely stopping the pain of hybrids that had to grow in tusks, antlers, horns, wings; you got the gist. Whether it was because people didn't care to help hybrids or it was just simply impossible was up for debate. But Schlatt wasn't here to debate. He had done his research and he had asked plenty of doctors in Manberg. Many had been apprehensive about speaking to him, but they did anyway. A few promised to try and do some research, but he had known they'd be too slow.

No matter. Where modern medicine failed, ancient medicine picked up the slack. For a species that had dealt with this agony for generations, they had found things that could help. Rub peppermint against the base of the horns or wings growing in. It'll numb it for at least a little bit. That was for when it got so agonizing all the person could do was scream. Keep ice cold water on hand, duck their head into it and boom; your body goes into shock and so do your senses. An ice cold sensation was easier to handle than the sensation when your skull is breaking itself up to make room for your horns.

Keep the person as comfortable as you can, that's only a given. When any noise is too much for them, be there. When all else fails, your scent can ground them. The scent of a parent is the best one for that, and so it was a damn good thing Schlatt had found Tubbo when he did. He knew this was coming soon. The boy had turned sixteen just a little while ago. Schlatt and his brother began growing theirs after six months. So he was an early bloomer. Old wives tales said that that was good luck and that his horns would be exceptionally strong. Schlatt just determined it was rotten fucking luck.

He had doctors come to Tubbo's room to check over him anyway. He knew there was little they could do. Morphine wouldn't even be able to touch it. It would just stunt the growth and make the pain worse. Schlatt had read too many horror stories when desperate hybrids brought their children to hospitals, and he was almost glad he and his brother had grown theirs all by themselves. But those had been the most agonizing three days of his life, and he knew Tubbo had some very long hours ahead of him. When Quackity had told him about how he saw Tubbo yanking on his own hair, he had a feeling it was time. So he was prepared. He had the herbs. He had buckets of ice cold water, sitting out and waiting to be used.

Tubbo's cries as he drifted through a painful haze of consciousness tore through Schlatt's heart. He kicked and he rolled around in bed. Schlatt had to keep stopping him from falling off. He would call out names, such as Niki, Wilbur; but he called and cried for Tommy the most. It was so agonizing to watch that Schlatt was even considering lifting the ban on TommyInnit so his son could have his best friend by his side.

He didn't sleep. He didn't go to meetings. Everything in the White House was put on hold. Wild news flew through the nation, and the sound of Tubbo's agonized screaming and Schlatt's sudden disappearance from the public eye was making rumors fly. Quackity had given him an update in hushed whispers into his ear as Tubbo cried in his arms. They said he was torturing the boy. They said that Schlatt had proclaimed himself as Emperor.

Schlatt didn't care. They could say all they like. They would see the truth when Tubbo would leave this room with little stubs, the beginnings of his horns.

And those stubs finally broke through on the dawn of the third day, and Schlatt knew they had begun when during the night prior he had run a wet washcloth, previously ducked in a bucket of ice cold water, over his hair to wipe away the sweat and it had come back bloody.

"I know, son," he whispered to him as Tubbo cried and cried, looking up at him with eyes hazy with agony. He cupped his face and rubbed calloused fingers against temples. "The worst will be over soon. You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you." Tubbo's eyes rolled into the back of his head as a new wave of pain struck, and his next noise was a mix of a baby lamb's cry and a bloodcurdling scream that bleed with his agony.

When he brushed his fingers through his hair, he felt the bumps. They were so small. You could barely even see the dark bone when you parted his hair. You'd miss them if you weren't looking for them. With their appearance, Tubbo's screams became less and less frequent. He whimpered and cried still and his eyes were still hazy when he was conscious, but he no longer cried the names of people Schlatt couldn't bring to him, he no longer sobbed broken words that were pleads for death, and his thrashing became less and less frequent.

Just when Schlatt was sure he could take no more, Tubbo let out one last gasping cry, and then finally fell silent. The crease in his forehead softened, and under Schlatt's gaze his breathing finally evened out. The red in his face began to fade, and when Schlatt wiped at it with a wet rag he twitched but didn't howl with pain.

Finally, it was over. Finally, peace. Finally, silence.

Schlatt's cheeks were damp with his own tears as he dropped his forehead onto the blanket. He would need to change the blankets and the sheets. Tubbo had sweated through them. But that could be done later. He was too exhausted. His hitched breaths evened out much like his son's, and his shoulders slowly relaxed. In a moment of weakness, he reached out and found his son's hand and grasped it carefully. His tan, large and calloused hand grasped the teen's smaller, pale one, enveloping it quickly.

But the worst was over. His horns would continue to grow until he was eighteen, but it would never be this bad. He would get migraines and he would bleed as his horns would break through any healed skin to grow longer. But he would never feel like his skull was trying to cave in on itself.

Schlatt fell into a fitful sleep, coming back to consciousness every ten minutes to listen to his son's steady breath and to be aware if anyone came near. for their own health, he hoped they would stay away. He couldn't save his son from his own horns. But he would rip apart any living thing that caused him harm. Schlatt knew he would take down Admins if it meant his son never being in so much agony ever again.

Father and son slept, bathed in moonlight, hands clasped together on the bed. For the first time in three long days and nights, the White House was silent.


	2. Day Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tubbo wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be a short chapter.
> 
> this. was supposed. to be a short chapter.
> 
> I'm kinda proud of this? Kinda not? Oh well. It's done and over with, can't do anything about it now; I hope you all enjoy it! Sorry that this took so damn long ^^; I'm depressed, but who isn't in 2020? All of your comments certainly spurred me on though, you're all just so nice ;-; I read every single one and I try to respond to them all! So don't be afraid to leave a comment!
> 
> {I guess I should mention there's a brief moment where its mentioned Tommy and Tubbo have shared a bed before. Obviously, it's very platonic, I don't ship minors. I think I've made it pretty clear by now that anything between the two are just platonic, but I don't want any stans trying to cancel me on twitter.}

When Tubbo came to, he felt like he had just woken up from a very, very long nap. His eyes were heavy and swollen like he had been crying, but he didn’t care. His head… It was empty. Empty of thoughts, of agony; for once in nearly a week he was… he was experiencing  _ peace.  _ He laid there in bed, feeling as heavy as a ton of bricks but so light at the same time. He didn’t bother opening his eyes until he felt ready too. He dozed off a few times, though he wasn’t sure for how long. When he  _ did  _ open his eyes, though, his vision was illuminated by a stream of light falling over his midsection. His eyes drifted to the source, his window which was slightly ajar. It was a bit windy out, and the gusts kept pushing the drawn curtains back, letting sunlight stream in. He wasn’t under his blankets, which he found a bit odd. He got cold easily, that was why he had about a million blankets.

Tommy always used to bitch and moan about how unnecessary it was until he was stealing them whenever they shared his bed, curling around the both of them so tight like he was trying to hide Tubbo and himself from the world—

The nice, weightless feeling was fading, and tears welled in his eyes. He felt vulnerable, weak, and that was the only expectation as to how he was shedding tears for his exiled best friend when he had originally thought he had run out of all of them. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to let it back out, but all that came out was a weak whimper that sounded so pathetic and—not even  _ human-like.  _ What kind of noise  _ was  _ that—?

“Hey, hey,” a voice thick with sleep whispered and he jumped, gasping as turned his head. He cried out afterward, shutting his eyes tight as he grabbed at his head. “Shh, it's alright,” the voice, foreign but so familiar at the same time, whispered to him as hands pulled his own from his head. “Don’t touch your head. It's gonna be tender for a few days, you won’t wanna move it too fast—or not at all, if possible.”

Tubbo tried to talk, tried to ask who they were since he couldn’t fathom opening his eyes with the dull throbbing in the back of his skull, but his tongue felt swollen and his throat was dry. He heard whoever was at his bedside move away briefly, and then come back and slide a finger underneath his chin, tilting his head up.

“Here,” they whispered, voice ever so soft, it had been since the first word they spoke to him, “you need to drink, Tubbo.” He parted his lips when the rim of the glass touched his lower lip by instinct, and if any thoughts of being poisoned or tricked crossed his mind they were quickly forgotten as the cool water trickled down his throat. He drank up every drop greedily, mourning any that slid down his chin, but it felt so nice to his skin he supposed he didn’t need to consider it a waste.

“Good, good. That should be enough for now...”

The cup was pulled from his lips and he peeled his eyes open, squinting in the barely lit room as he tilted his head up. His eyesight still felt a bit fuzzy, and it took him a bit to piece the person’s blurred features together.

“Quackity?” He finally croaked out, and the vice president smiled down at him. He wasn’t in a suit and tie, which was… strange. Instead, he was wearing a blue sweater and sweatpants, and behind him was a chair with a blanket draped on the back. How long had he been here? He looked exhausted…

“Welcome back to the land of the living, kid. You’ve been out for three days.”

_**-_-_-_-_-** _

After Tubbo had eaten half of a very big breakfast then he could really handle—and when he had asked why the cooks had given Quackity so much, practically a feast, Quackity had shrugged and made a dismissive comment about how they had been worried about him and were relieved to see him up and about but he refused to explain anything until  _ after  _ he had eaten—he put the tray on his bedside table and turned towards Quackity, mouth set in a determined line.

“Okay, I’ve eaten. Now, tell me what’s going on!” He cringed as his voice rose to a level his head couldn’t take just yet. “Why do I feel like I had been run over by a dumpster truck?” He hadn’t when he woke up, but then he thought about Tommy and it had all been  _ ruined  _ and—

“I’m… Not really sure how to tell you this, kiddo,” Quackity finally said, drumming his fingers against his knee. He was sitting in the chair again, blanket wrapped around him while he nibbled on some waffles he had nabbed from Tubbo’s tray. Tubbo wished he had taken more. He felt bad, wasting so much food on that tray. He could still remember days where they had to ration everything, and the desperation and the pain of starvation that had followed when they had run out of everything. He remembered being so desperate that he had nearly skinned and roasted a rat they had caught in a mousetrap. Niki had been the one to stop him. Their friend group used to joke about it, but looking back on it now,… it wasn’t so funny.

Ugh. He was making his head hurt worse.

“Just tell me! Am I sick? Did I overwork myself?” Quackity shook his head and held his hands up, silencing Tubbo before he ran his fingers through his hair.

“No, you didn’t overwork yourself. And… No, I wouldn’t call it a sickness at all.” He sighed slowly, then gritted his teeth. “Alright, fuck, I’ll bite the bullet,” he said, then muttered to himself; “I told him I was shit at this, I told him he should’ve done this…” Before Tubbo could ask what he was muttering about, Quackity raised his voice and asked;

“You know about hybrids?”

Tubbo stared at him. Did he know about hybrids?  _ Obviously.  _ Fundy was a fox hybrid for God’s sake! Some… Salmon, fox, human hybrid—Tubbo didn’t like to think about the logistics of it. He nodded, quirking an eyebrow, then quickly lowering it and rubbing at his forehead when his head ached harshly in protest. Quackity watched him worriedly, then cleared his throat when Tubbo gave him a pointed look.

“You know ram hybrids?”

Tubbo shifted and thought back to their President with his menacing broad-shouldered stature and his long, sharp horns. That dark glint in his eyes, the way he always seemed to watch Tubbo’s every move.

“Yeah,” he muttered, throat feeling dry again. “Where are you going with—?”

“You’re a ram hybrid, Tubbo.”

Everything stopped. He stared at the Vice President, waiting for him to tell him this was some joke. That was what this had to be, right? Some sick fucking joke, some sick scheme.

“You were unconscious for three days, because… Your horns were growing in.”

It wasn’t.

_**-_-_-_-_-** _

Schlatt knew better than to be there when Tubbo woke up, though his instincts screamed at him when he had finally left his son’s side after three long days. Despite all of the pain and turmoil, his soul had been at some sort of ease, being near his son for so long after so many years of being apart. He knew he was just hurting himself, pulling him away so suddenly, especially when his instincts knew that Tubbo needed him the most right now. But he also knew he would only be hurting Tubbo more if he was the first person he saw when he woke up.

Schlatt was a businessman before he was anything, even as President, and he knew how to watch people’s body language. He knew how to tell what people were thinking. But he wouldn’t even need those skills to know that the kid was utterly terrified of him. He couldn’t meet his eyes, but with everyone else, he met theirs with such a fierceness that he was demanding for them to see him as older than he actually was. That he was stronger than he seemed, that he wasn’t someone they could walk all over. At the end of the day, though, he was just a boy. A sixteen-year-old boy that, when faced with a man who had exiled his best friend and who he believed to be a great leader and another one of his good friends, who was tall and menacing and had piercing eyes and sharp horns, he was scared.

So Schlatt left when the sun rose and had Quackity take his place. He gave him and Tubbo the day off, ordered his Vice President to get comfortable because the kid would be unconscious for several more hours, and then went to his office. He hadn’t slept much, even with Tubbo finally peaceful beside him. His nerves were on his skin. He was constantly looking for enemies, for harsh intentions even in the most docile of workers here in the White House. He had bared his teeth at his secretary when she had walked in without bothering to walk, and though he had given her an apology he could tell the damage had been done.

Damn. And she had just been beginning to loosen up around him.

_ Damn these ram instincts,  _ he thought to himself.  _ They’re more trouble than they’re worth. _

He thought that for a whole five seconds until he felt his son at the end of the hall. His head swiveled around and his eyes trained on the door that Tubbo was walking towards on the other side, hesitant in every step he took. He could sense the anxiety and the conflict in his son’s every step, and it only grew as he got closer and closer to the door. Schlatt stared, eyes piercing, and couldn’t bring himself to look away and act like he hadn’t been staring at the door for several minutes when his son finally found the courage to push the door open.

The silence was heavy between them as their eyes met, and Tubbo’s face paled as he shrunk down a couple of inches. The boy was already so much smaller than Schlatt, standing at a pitying five foot five while Schlatt stood tall and proud at six foot three. He was the smallest ram hybrid Schlatt had ever met. Perhaps it was his mother’s genes. She had been five foot three. She would have been so bitter to see that her son had grown to get a few inches off of her.

It was a damn shame she hadn’t lived long enough to even see him walk, or take his first words. Not that Schlatt had gotten to see those for himself.

“You’re up,” he pushed out, untangling himself from his destructive thoughts. “That's good.” Tubbo didn’t respond, staring at him still. Schlatt leaned back in his chair, setting his pen down as he did. He tried to make himself seem smaller, less threatening, but it didn’t seem to do anything. Inwardly, he sighed. “How do you feel?”

“... Like I got ran over,” the kid muttered, then jumped when Schlatt laughed. He couldn’t help it.

“Yeah, that's normal,” he smirked. “Eat and drink a lot, get a lot of rest; it’ll fade in a day or two so long as you take care of yourself.”  _ A hard feat for you, son. _

He knew it wasn’t good for him, referring to Tubbo as his son so often in his mind. One of these days, he was going to slip up and reveal himself. Or just make himself look like a creep or a manipulative bastard. He was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to tell the kid; probably when he wasn’t so fucking scared of him. But he had no idea when that time would come. If it would ever.

“Mr. President?” Schlatt focused back on his son, who had taken a couple more steps into the office and had shut his doors behind him. He was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a green sweatshirt. Good, the kid was relaxing. It was the first time he had seen him in normal clothes. Before, it had been that revolutionary uniform, like he was some  _ soldier  _ and not a  _ teenager.  _ Then it was that suit with the dark green tie. The kid seemed to like green. He filed that information away, though he wasn’t sure where he would ever use it. “Quackity said… He said I could ask you some questions.”

_ Did he now?  _ Schlatt thought flatly, resisting the strong urge to sigh out loud.  _ Fucking Christ, Quackity. Just throw me under the bus, why dontcha? _

“Shoot, then,” he said, trying not to sound defeated. Best to just get this done and over with so the kid could leave before he had a heart attack.

“I’m a ram hybrid?” He asked.

“Most likely,” Schlatt said, though he knew he most certainly was. Tubbo blinked at him. “I’m ninety percent sure you are. But other hybrids grow in horns like us. I suggest going to the doctor, getting a blood test and all, just to be totally sure.”

“I’ve gotten blood tests before,” Tubbo protested, “and none of them ever said I was a ram hybrid.”

“In some half-breeds, the hybrid gene isn’t very powerful until they’ve matured enough to go through their hybrid changes. Think of it as a second puberty, only less smelly and a lot more painful.” Schlatt tilted his head as he looked Tubbo up and down. “I can assure you, Tubbo, I did nothing to turn you into a ram.” Tubbo’s eyes widened. “It would be impossible, and I wouldn’t even wish such a thing like growing in your horns upon my worst enemies.”

“I wasn’t thinking you did!” The kid was quick to say, too quick. It was obvious he hadn’t been. Schlatt tried not to feel hurt, reminding himself that the kid didn’t know. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand a lot of things.

Shit, Schlatt didn’t either.

“If I’m not a ram,” Tubbo continued after a few moments of tense silence, “then… What else could I be?”

“Maybe a deer,” Schlatt said absentmindedly, spinning his pencil on his desk. “My mother and twin were.” He paused and then coughed. “He, uh, grew in the same stubs as me.” Tubbo blinked at him.

“You have a twin?” Schlatt purposely dodged the question. He was  _ not  _ having that discussion.

“There might be other animals, but, I’d say you have a ninety percent chance of being a ram, and a ten percent chance of being a deer from what I know. I definitely suggest getting a professional opinion, though. I’m not a doctor, and I’m sure there’s a least  _ one  _ hybrid doctor in this city.”

There was. Just one.  _ Exactly  _ one. Schlatt needed to change that. Most of the lower classes were hybrids like him and Tubbo, and they needed doctors that understood their problems and biology. A hybrid doctor would know better than to prescribe medicines that were going to damage their health and stunt their growth more than it could ever  _ help. _

Schlatt didn’t believe the doctors that claimed they ‘didn’t know any better.’ Fuck them.

“Quackity said you took care of me.”

Schlatt was going to need a new Vice President.

He didn’t say anything. Quite frankly, he didn’t know what to say. That wasn’t a common thing for him. Instead, he stared at Tubbo, both completely and utterly still. Schlatt could see his wife in those bright blue eyes, and if he looked close enough, could see himself in the thin line of the kid’s lips, in the slight furrow of his brow, and soon, he would see himself with his horns that would bring racism and pain and more and more pain; all negative emotions that Schlatt was making him feel.

Did he give this kid anything good?

“I didn’t,” he finally said. “I stayed by your side for a moment, to give the doctors some instructions; but that was it. They took care of you. Not me.”

Tubbo looked like he wanted to argue, with his fingers dug deep into the sleeves of his sweatshirt as he hugged himself, hands clutching onto his forearms. He looked like he knew he was arguing and he was ready to call him out on his bullshit. Schlatt’s heart quickened in his chest and he thought,  _ don’t. Please, kid. I can only lie to you once. _

But then Tubbo’s shoulders lost their tension, and his fingers relaxed. He unwrapped them from themselves and instead pushed his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “Right,” he said, voice quiet. “I was just… Wondering.”

Schlatt didn’t say anything. They sat in silence and just as Schlatt was about to break and ask him to leave, Tubbo piped up again.

“My natural hair color is brown.”

Schlatt stopped breathing.

“I dyed it blond, because… Tommy… He was… He was the only blond in the group, and everyone kept making fun of him… And he was laughing it off, but I could tell he was kinda hurt, so... I dyed it. And the jokes stopped because, well…” Tubbo shifted. “He wasn’t the only blond one anymore.”

“That was nice of you,” Schlatt said when he finally found his voice again. It took longer than it should have. He had wondered where the blond hair came from. He had done a good job. You couldn’t even tell. It had gotten past Schlatt, at least, which now that he thought of it, wasn’t… that big of a feat. He knew next to nothing about dyed hair. He had helped Connor once. That had been a fucking disaster because apparently he ‘used too much bleach’ and ‘almost killed them with the fumes.’

“I think I’m gonna let it grow brown again. I don’t… I don’t think the dye is healthy for the horns, and all…”

“I’m not sure. That’s something you should ask a doctor about.”

Tubbo nodded. “R— Right. Um… That's— That's all I wanted to ask you.” He stepped back. “I’ll leave you alone, now.”

_ Don’t. Please. Every minute you’re away from me, every time you look at me like you’re terrified I’m going to hurt you when you do something wrong, it slowly kills me. I can’t keep going like this., _

Schlatt nodded. “Get some rest, Tubbo. You’re going to need it.”

“Right. Uh… Have a good afternoon, Mr. President.”

Schlatt didn’t say anything, too busy screaming internally as his son walked away from him  _ again. _

Tubbo looked like hell. It was three o’clock in the morning and he couldn’t sleep. He stood in his bathroom, gripping his phone in his hand, staring at himself in the mirror. The bags underneath his eyes were heavy, his eyes were starting to go bloodshot, and he looked as pale as a ghost. Even though he knew he shouldn’t, he dropped his eyes to his phone and immediately squeezed them shut as he turned his head away.

Pulled up on his screen were two pictures, side by side in a collage app because it was the only way he could think to do this without having physical pictures in front of them. One of them was Schlatt a couple of years ago when a newspaper did an interview him over his business. He was smiling, actually smiling. His eyes were still dark, but there was a charismatic twinkle to them. The other one was a picture of Tubbo himself, grinning as he hugged onto someone’s arm—

(It was Tommy’s, he had cropped the picture because it was still too soon, it hurt too much and he couldn’t have him in the frame anyway, his face would make it harder)

—it was when he had his brown hair. If he remembered correctly, he had dyed his hair just days later.

Their pictures side by side in the collage, Jay Schlatt and Tubbo, the orphan with no surname to claim as his own, looked exactly alike. Their jawline was the same, though Tubbo’s was certainly still developing. Their eyes shared the same shape, as did their face in general. And when Tubbo reached up and ran his fingertips along the fresh stubs of his tender horns, he was finally seized with such a terrible realization that it made him drop his phone.

He was vomiting into the sink a moment later, gripping at the edge of the sink with trembling hands, blond bangs with brown roots dangling in front of his eyes as his shoulders quivered.

Oh, God.

_ Oh, God, please, no. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(


End file.
